by John Vigna
X
Earl wakes Hammy when the phone rings. Hammy answers, goes back to bed. Earl picks up Hammy’s journal, sips coffee outside in the sunshine. He’s got a ferocious headache, one the coffee won’t fix, no matter how many cups he drinks. The German shepherd barks and chases after a tennis ball that a guard tosses for him. Earl skims through a bunch of stories and stops at a list.
How to steal and never get caught:
1. Wear baggy clothing. Army surplus pants work best cause theyve got lots of pockets.
2. Pick the right store. The Bay is good (tho I got caught there once when I was too high) cause theres no undercover guards. Plus theres tons of small shit you can pinch and unload quickly on the street. CDs, watches, jewelry, that kind of stuff.
3. Scope out security. Most cameras are out in the open, hanging down in the corners of the store. Others are behind one-way glass. Avoid stores with armed guards.
4. Smoke and mirrors. You got to make sure you get near the thing you want to take but let it be. Pick up the thing next to it. Hold it up in the light, turn it over as though its the most important thing you need. While this is going on, grab the thing you really want with your other hand and slip it into your pocket.
5. Escaping. NEVER RUN! Keep cool and walk out as normal. If you get caught, pretend youre telling the truth. Convince yourself and you will act innocent! This is 100% foolproof in crime and life!
When Hammy wakes, he nods to Earl, fills his coffee cup, and takes a sip.
“Real good, Big E.”
Earl pauses before answering to see if Hammy’s sincere. “Customized coffee for my little man. Nothing but the best.”
Hammy sits down. He’s in a good mood, more relaxed, and wants to fill Earl in about the prison band he’s the drummer in, “Bitches Crew.” The lead guitarist is also in for drug-related charges. They have plans to go out east when they’re released to cut a CD and tour. Hammy’s excited; Earl can hear it in his voice, the promise of something better. He didn’t know that Hammy played the drums or any other instrument.
“Wanna hear us play?”
Earl considers it for a flash, knows there’s only one answer; there’s no way they’ll make the trip out east—it’s just a ploy to keep them going while they’re doing their time, even if Hammy’s telling the truth. “Sure. Just let me know when.”
“No time like the present. Here’s a few songs we recorded ourselves in the music room. Your tax dollars at work.” Hammy pulls a CD out of his mesh bag, slips it into the boombox, turns up the volume.
The assault of metallic noise lacks any sense of rhythm or melody, caterwauling guitars, indecipherable vocals. Earl tries to listen. Hammy nods his head, moves his arms as though he’s beating the drums. Despite the violence of the music and the drum line, he’s calm and keeps good rhythm.
“Dance for me, Big E. C’mon, show me those crazy moves of yours.” Hammy plays on, nods his head, his foot thumps the bass drum. His eyes are closed and he looks happier than Earl has seen him in years. “C’mon, Earl. Loosen up, bust a move.”
“Sounds good, especially the drumbeat. But it isn’t exactly dancing music, is it?”
Hammy opens his eyes. The joy drains from his face. He stops playing. “You’re a bullshitter if there ever was one. I don’t know how you do it or who buys it, but you are one certified bullshit artist.” Hammy turns off the CD, shakes his head. “You disappoint me.” He goes outside for a cigarette.
Earl sees him light up and exhale against the deep blue sky, pace the small yard, barking out fuck yous. He sits down on top of the picnic table, his back to Earl, faces the waist-high fence that surrounds the house near the taller brick walls of the prison. Earl reaches for Hammy’s journal.
Big and Small and Mother stood on the front porch of their house. Small got caught with a baggie of pot. Pa was in the bush, two weeks on, one off. Both Cops had their hats in their hands. Skinny Cop had a neatly trimmed moustache. Fat Cop had grey hair. Skinny Cop said: Where did you find this? Small said: In the playground. At the bottom of the slide. In the sand. Fat Cop said: What were you doing there? Small said: Playing, what else would I be doing in a playground? Skinny Cop glanced at Fat Cop and said: Was anyone else around? Small said: No. Skinny Cop held the baggie. The contents were bright green, it was nearly empty. Small wondered how Big had found his stash, what hed done with the rest of it. Fat Cop said: Anything else we should know? Small said: No. Small was high tho, and the Cops were freaking him out. He was pissed at Big and would get back at him somehow, someway. Make him pay for this. Small said: Im telling the truth. Why dont you believe me? I told you I found it in the playground. That’s the truth. Why wont anyone believe me? Fat Cop said: No ones saying otherwise. Fat Cop nodded at Mother and said: Its disturbing to think what would have happened if some little kids had found it. Small looked at Big, at the way Big glared at him, his fists clenched at his sides, silently goading him not to say anything else and knows if he did rat on him, that thered be consequences to pay when Pa got home.
Earl’s forehead is damp, his heart races. He runs his hands through his hair and pulls at the roots, trying to ease his headache. Lying comes easy to Hammy; he’s hardwired to believe his own lies. Earl feels disgust at this thought; the tendrils of it work their way into him. He gets up, blows his nose, rehearses a story about having to go home right away, anything plausible to get out of the unit, out of the prison, back to his real life. But the idea that he is lying to himself right now, that he may be lying to himself unaware, unsettles him. He punches the sofa seat. “Goddammit.”
Hammy comes back into the house, sullen and quiet, his movements weary and lethargic. Earl sinks back against the couch, his head heavy against the top of the faux leather.
Hammy sits down, scribbles in his notebook, turns on the CD, cranks up the volume.
“I might be getting older but I’m not hard of hearing.”
“Remember that ewe we once had?” Hammy said.
“We had a lot of ewes.”
“The one we left alone to graze in the tall grass in that fenced-off patch beside the barn?”
“Nope. But I remember a goat we had. He kept eating Ma’s laundry off the line. We had to keep raising the line, but he’d still manage to get at it. That damn goat had skills.”
Hammy grinned. “We left her alone and she ate and ate, as if she were trying to eat all of the grass around her. But there was a lot of grass. She was the fattest ewe I ever saw. After a while she couldn’t even move except to bend down and graze. Just stood there eating. Her belly dragged on the grass she’d finished eating. When we sold her, we had to lift her into the truck by a harness and a tow truck.”
“What’s your point, little man?”
“She was never hungry. She gorged herself because she was always alone.”
Earl stands over Hammy and forms a fist in his right hand. He clenches Hammy’s arm, his fingernails dig into the flesh of his bicep. “Dial it down a notch, all right?”
They stare at one another. Hammy lifts his pen and hits the air as though with a drumstick, in perfect timing of the song’s closing flourish.
Earl lets go, punches Hammy’s shoulder. “Still sounds like shit.”
XI
On their last evening, Hammy goes to bed early, jams his journal beneath his armpit. The TV on mute, Earl listens to the silence in the prison, the images from a movie he does not recognize flash on the walls. He watches without interest and drifts into sleep.
“Earl, c’mon, git up.” Hammy tugs on his sock. “Still falling asleep in front of the boob tube, huh? C’mon, git up. You got a long drive tomorrow.”
Earl opens his eyes to find Hammy hunched over him. The last time Hammy woke him up was over a decade ago. He had a rifle across his lap, his breath reeked of booze and snuff, and he suggested they hunt squirrels in the middle of the night. Another time he had leaned into Earl’s face and in a quiet, menacing tone told Earl that he had slept with Earl’s first wife, that
she’d been “gagging for it.” Now, waking Earl on the couch, Hammy’s gentleness terrifies him. Experience has taught Earl it’s dangerous to believe in what another person seems to be. They will always surprise you. They will always let you down.
“You’re a good man for coming here.” Hammy offers his hand.
Earl grips Hammy’s hand to lift himself off the couch.
“You’re all I’ve got left.” Hammy holds his hand tight. “The only thing that’s real. I just want you to know that.”
“Maybe I’ll come back, pick you up when it’s time to get out of here.” Earl feels good in making the offer, but realizes he’s just uttered what Hammy predicted he would say. He lets go of Hammy’s hand.
“That’d be nice, Big E.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“’Night.” Earl stumbles down the hallway to his room, closes his door, glad to be alone.
The doll lies crumpled on the closet floor. He lifts its limp body, unclasps the valve on the nipple and blows into it. Air hisses out of its neck. He blows into it again, but it’s no use, the air doesn’t take. He examines the rip; it’s torn along the edges as if slashed. A black-tipped knife lies on the carpet. He drops the lifeless plastic, pushes it aside with his foot, closes the door.
Earl crawls into bed, the camera outside trained on him. He turns on his side and tries to sleep, but can’t calm himself. Each inhale comes in short, shallow bursts, his chest feels clenched. He counts each breath, exhales slowly, not now, dear God, not here, not now. Hammy tried his best, was still trying his best, and Earl regretted not being a better brother to him, rather than avoiding him like he was a damaged gene that might infect him. It occurs to Earl that Hammy might be avoiding Earl for the same reasons, that he sees Earl as the damaged one. Earl gasps for air with his mouth open, a hoarse rasping shallow in his throat like some old man taking his last inhalation. He exhales slowly, draws another breath until gradually his panting subsides. He’d pick up Hammy when he was released, help him get his feet on the ground, let him stay at his house for a while. But as his breathing returns to normal, he knows these are just thoughts to help himself feel better. He would have to keep Hammy away from Arlene, that much was certain. Earl would see Hammy whenever he decided to show up, probably when he was broke again and had hit rock bottom. Earl had done his duty by visiting him. That counted for something.
XII
In the morning, the phone rings early for count. Earl wakes Hammy. After Hammy hangs up the phone, he mumbles, “Fuckin’ screws.” Earl grins.
Hammy does not go back to bed. Earl makes him coffee and they sit on the couch in front of the TV. Hammy turns it off, holds his journal, flips through the pages. “You all right, Big E?”
“Yeah, fine. Why?”
“I worry about you.”
“There’s nothing to be bothered about. If I have any worries they aren’t anything like what you’ve got.”
Hammy looks him in the eyes and smiles. “Sure. A man can get whipped but that don’t mean he’s beat, right? Glad you’re doing well.” He turns away. Two guards walk toward the house. “They’re early.” He taps the journal against his thigh. His voice is low, barely a whisper. “Big E, I don’t want to go back.”
Earl nods, glances toward the guards approaching, uncomfortable with Hammy’s confession. He considers the attractive guard from the first day. Maybe he will hang around town for another day or two, get a room, see where it all leads.
“Can I ask a favour?” Hammy says.
“Depends.”
Hammy hands him the journal. “Can you hold this for me?”
“Why?”
“Safekeeping. It’d just get stolen or trashed in here.”
The short stocky woman Earl saw when he first arrived opens the door to the house. Even after three days, she’s not much to look at. “Ready?”
“Yes, ma’am, in a minute.” Hammy gathers his things, stuffs them in the mesh sack. Earl’s bags sit packed by the door.
“So, will you?” Hammy says.
“What about your social worker?”
“It’s time to start another one.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“I’d tell you not to read it but that’d only make you want to read it. Hell, it don’t matter to me. It’s all true. Stories about my life. I got nothing to hide.” He looks around the room, nods to the guard, shrugs. “Seriously, where am I gonna hide?”
Hammy hands Earl one of his prison issue T-shirts in exchange for one of his. They pull them on. Earl’s shirt hangs loosely on Hammy, the neck too wide; the bottom of the shirt drapes below his waistline. Earl struggles against the tight fit of the cotton from Hammy’s shirt. He stretches out the bottom in an attempt to cover his belly and folds his arms over his chest, but air hits the flesh of his stomach so he pulls down on the shirt and exits the house with Hammy. The guard locks the door, shuts the gate.
“Worried about a break-in?” Earl says.
Hammy laughs.
They shake hands in front of the guards and cameras and prison-yard workers.
“We can’t help who we are or what we’ve done. We just have to keep trying to move forward, right?” Hammy’s eyes dart back and forth; he gives Earl an everything’s-a-okay smile. “I sincerely wish nothing but the best for you, Big E.” He turns and limps toward the main part of the prison, one guard in front of him, another behind him, his mesh bag of belongings slung over his shoulder, Earl’s T-shirt baggy on him; a little boy being sent off to summer camp.
Earl stands alone in front of the prison, unsure of what to do next, where to go. “Hey, Hammy,” he shouts out. “Wait a sec.”
Hammy does not look back.
SHORT HAUL
I
FRESH MEAT FRIDAY, the bar crowded with men from all over the valley who have come to see the new lineup in town. As Lonnie squeezes into a chair next to Ricky, the men behind him murmur that they paid good money for their seats, sit the fuck down already. They hunch over low tables, pink fleshy mouths gaping like wounds, dirty boots, fading mack jackets, and ball caps pulled down low. Sausage fingers pinch the necks of their beer bottles; eyes blink dull and dim, gawk at the stage. Beneath a mirrored ceiling of red, black, and blue spotlights, the stripper is down to a policeman’s hat and PVC thong. “Dirty Laundry” booms through the bar. Ricky clamps his arm around Lonnie, tells him to ignore them, orders another round of overpriced Jack shooters, chased by the beer special.
“Whoo-hee! If she’s not the hottest cop I’ve ever seen.” Ricky leans forward, his tattooed arms and sharp elbows splayed on the stage.
The stripper swings from a gold pole by the crook of her arm. Her hair spills down her back like sun-bleached barley, silver anklet twinkling in the lights. She pivots on five-inch heels and squats, crushes her inflated breasts together, pretends to lick the length of the brass pole. The room grows rigid, a collective holding of breath, so silent that Lonnie hears the woman’s skin squeak against the pole as she lowers herself and crouches before him. Ricky and the men behind him exhale a low, hoarse whistle and for a moment Lonnie imagines a scent of sagebrush and pine needles, deep from the valley’s farthest corners, instead of the cheap cologne and rank sweat of men around him, breathing through their mouths like dogs circling for scraps.
Behind the stage, a football game plays on the large screen. The Patriots complete a pass in their hurry-up offence. The stripper stands in front of Lonnie, pulls a finger out of her holster, takes aim at him, fires, and blows the tip of her French-manicured nail. Her green eyes stop on him, sum him up in a flash, and quickly dismiss him. Pass incomplete. Second down.
“Heard anything?” Ricky stares straight ahead.
“Nope.”
The song ends and “All Out of Love” begins. The seats creak, men shift behind him. After three long dance numbers, the stripper circles the stage with her tattered Navajo blanket, one hand to her ear while men whoop and holler and wave.
<
br /> “Right here, baby.” Ricky thumps the stage with his palm and holds up a folded five-dollar bill. The quarterback scrambles for a few yards before he slips out of bounds. The stripper fluffs open the blanket, spreads it in front of them. Lonnie senses the men behind him lean forward, waits for one of them to pat his back in a sad, conflicted gesture of brotherhood that comes when men drink beer and watch naked women together.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Ricky tosses the note on the blanket, slaps Lonnie on the shoulders. “House arrest, big man.”
Fourth down. Lonnie shakes his head. The stripper slides toward him on her hands and knees, stares at Lonnie with a look that could split firewood from a hundred yards. She holds up a pair of handcuffs. A silver key glitters from a thin chain on her neck. The men behind him yell, pound their tabletops with their fists. One of them taps Lonnie on the back, pushes him toward the stage. Ricky holds out his wrists and grins. She shimmies closer, sits on her heels and bounces up and down, pinches her nipples and tips her head back in a soft, well-rehearsed moan.
